


eat, drink, and be merry

by flowermasters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (semi-seriously; this is ... ridiculous), Crack Treated Seriously, Cultural Differences, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Minor Bellamy Blake/Echo, Minor Monty Green/Harper McIntyre, Weddings, i love my ragtag bunch of space brats, let them be happy so i can pretend it hasn't gone to shit, spacekru means family and family means nobody gets left behind, time jump fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: Murphy and Emori do what they can to improve morale.





	eat, drink, and be merry

**Author's Note:**

> When I say "crack treated seriously," I mean, "this is shameless, fluffy garbage, and I don't know how I got here, only that my Memori heart hurts."
> 
> Warnings for: general fluffy ridiculousness, discussions of Grounder/Skaikru cultural differences, brief mentions of canon-typical ableism, background canon pairings.

“You know,” John says, “I miss Monty’s moonshine.”

Emori huffs under her breath, glancing up from where her head rests on his chest. “Right now, or all the time?”

“Lately,” John says, pulling a face as if to say, _it’s_ _not so bad_. “Not even for myself, really. Everybody else could really use a fucking drink.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

They play a game sometimes: what do you miss, what don’t you miss. Never in front of the others—Emori doesn’t think they’d get it, the same kind of strange pleasure that comes from finding a scab and scratching at it. They don’t play often, because it didn’t take very long up here for them to bring up all the easy stuff. _Fuck, I miss real food_ , or _I don’t miss knives, but I feel strange without one._ But the trick is to find something that makes you ache a little in remembering it, because it’s better than thinking of nothing at all. _I miss the sunset over the dunes—at the moment when the air has begun to cool, but the sand hasn’t, and the sky is in between blue and orange, and everything feels warm-cool and strange._

 _You should write poetry_ , John told her, after that one. _That’s poetry I might actually read._  

“I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone but you in days,” John says. “Which, you know, doesn’t really hurt my feelings. But it’s getting a little—”

“Boring?”

“I was going to say ‘awkward,’” John says, “but now I’m feeling a little insulted.”

Emori grins against his sharp collarbone. “Sorry. But there’s only so much sex to be had, and only so many two-person card games.”

“I disagree that there’s ever a limit on how much sex we can have.”

Emori gives him a little nudge in the ribs, where he’s ticklish, but she doesn’t pursue it when he squirms. “So, what do we do?” she says, after a moment.

She doesn’t know when it became a question of _doing something about it_ , but it is now. Loath as John is to admit it, daily survival on this ship relies on all of them, like a system—and not just the survival of their bodies. They can’t hide in their room together forever, although they’ve made a valiant effort in the past few days. But Emori can feel it sucking at them both like a leech, the enduring silence just outside the door. That’s not even including the actual void of space.

“We could host a _rousing_ game of Scrabble. Someone’s always upset by the end of a Scrabble game. Dinner rations on Bellamy.”

“Keep them. You hate Scrabble.”

“Very true,” John says. “I’d say let’s host a party, but I hate those, too.”

“A party,” Emori says. “Like a celebration?”

“To two years and almost six months of not dying,” John says. “Or, to two years and six months of more not dying.”

“We can’t make it about that.” Nobody wants to think about the stretch behind them or the stretch ahead, not even her or John, outside of their most masochistic moments. “Besides, celebrations are supposed to be happy. Or at least distractions. But we don’t have anything to celebrate.”

The only thing she’s ever celebrated is a particularly good con. That usually meant a feast with Otan, new tech, and enough water that they wouldn’t have to worry for days. She adds that to the list of things she sort-of misses and sort-of doesn’t, to be brought up later.

“On the Ark, we had Unity Day,” John says, and his voice takes on that little twist it does when he talks about the Ark of years ago. “Then there were smaller things, sometimes specific to the stations or sections. Like a dance, or a party for somebody who had a kid or something.” He pauses. “We could get married, I guess.”

Emori blinks. “Okay.”

Emori doesn’t have to lift her head to know he’s raising his eyebrows; he does this whenever someone manages to stymy his quick wit. When he speaks, he sounds skeptical, but in a sort of pleasantly surprised way. “I was partly serious, you know.”

Emori grins. “I know. I’m partly serious, too.”

* * *

“John and I have an announcement to make,” Emori says, over the next morning’s reheated algae slop.

This draws some attention, of course. Monty and Harper stop talking to one another, mid-murmur; Raven stops shoveling algae into her mouth as though eating it quickly will counter the taste; Bellamy and Echo look up from their bowls simultaneously. John, who Emori had not warned about this, blinks at her with sleepy eyes, acquiescent nonetheless.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Raven asks, barely managing to maintain her protective coating of sarcasm.

“No,” Emori says, slightly horrified.

“We would make an incredibly cute baby, though,” John says, stirring his soup.

“For God’s sake,” Bellamy mutters. “What is it?”

“We’re getting married,” John says before Emori can speak, perhaps just to spite Bellamy.

Nobody seems to know what to do or how to respond for a few seconds. Raven lets out a startled scoff, but that’s about it. Then, with a quizzical but nevertheless pleasant expression, Harper says, “Congratulations?”

“Thank you, Harper,” John replies, in the smuggest manner possible. Emori works very hard to suppress a smile.

“Whose idea was this?” Monty asks, equally bemused.

“Mine,” John says. “Very romantic. Take some notes, Green.”

“It was a conversation,” Emori corrects, giving John a look that hopefully communicates _pull it back a little_. He winks at her. John, at least, is having fun with this idea.

“You’re all invited to the wedding, obviously,” John says. “It’s—when did we decide?”

They hadn’t, actually; Emori hadn’t really planned to bring it up first thing this morning, but one more miserable breakfast and she really was going to lock herself in the bedroom with John for the next two and a half years, if not forever. “Tonight?”

“But you’ve already seen each other today,” Echo says.

Out of everyone in the group, Echo was the person Emori least expected to have an opinion on this, other than perhaps a general disdain for the frivolity of it. It seems the others feel the same, judging by the unanimously raised eyebrows directed at Echo.

She looks vaguely uncomfortable under the scrutiny, her brows drawing together in a way that would go unnoticed by anyone who had not spent over two years in close proximity with her. “Perhaps it’s an Azgedan custom,” she says. “The couple stays apart until the ceremony takes place.”

“How is this even going to work, actually?” Raven asks, skeptical and amused all at once. “Ark weddings are just a trip to the admin offices and some paperwork, technically.”

“But there was always a party afterwards, in the couple’s section,” Monty points out. “Besides, they don’t just ask you to sign the form. There’s vows.”

“So, who reads the vows?” Raven says. “Bellamy?”

“Why me?” Bellamy says, raising his eyebrows. Even he, however, cannot feign complete disinterest. His eyes, dark as they are, are bright and alert for the first time in weeks.

“You like to hear yourself talk more than anyone I know,” Raven says, kindly.

“Fuck off,” Bellamy says, but he’s outright smiling now, and he doesn’t say no.

“We’ll need time to get ready,” Harper says. “Decorations, fresh clothes—"

“Tomorrow, then,” Emori says. She’d been hoping for interest, of course, but she hadn’t expected quite this much. Perhaps she should have. They’ve taken to the idea with the desperation of people searching for something, anything, to put their minds to. She glances at John, wondering how he’s handling all this, but he’s smirking in a way she knows means he’s taking pleasure in something, even if he wouldn’t admit to it. He meets her eyes, and then she is no longer worried at all.

* * *

Apparently, wedding planning can take up quite a bit of time, if you try very hard.

They all have their ordinary chores to take care off, of course, but the wedding seems to remain a topic of conversation most of the day, from what Emori can discern—while Monty and Harper tend the algae crop, while Echo and Raven spar. At dinner, they talk of other things, mainly because they seem to have partially exhausted their material, but it comes up again during the after-dinner poker game. They haven’t played cards as a group in at least two weeks.

“So, Emori,” Raven says. “I figure you can sleep in my room tonight.”

Emori looks up from her hand, pulled from her thoughts. “What?”

“You know, what Echo was talking about earlier,” Raven says, “about the not-seeing-each-other-until-the-wedding thing. On the Ark, that would’ve been impossible, because everybody had to work a normal day. But now it’s not. Besides, it seems fair to follow some ground customs in the ceremony.”

“Remind me, who put you in charge?” John asks, over the rim of his cup.

“Fate,” Raven says, “evolution, a higher power. Take your pick.”

“We’re still going to have to work tomorrow, by the way,” Bellamy points out. “We can’t just take the whole day off.”

“Sure thing, _Dad_ ,” Monty says. “But Murphy and Emori won’t have to work.”

“When do they ever,” Bellamy says dryly.

“Hey,” John says. “Emori works hard.”

This earns a genuine laugh from around the table, and Emori is pleased enough with them all to agree to stay the night in Raven’s room.

Which, of course, sounds like a fun idea—and is fun—up until Raven has gone to sleep and Emori has not.

She should be tired, and she is—she and John had to scrub the kitchens today. Still, she doesn’t fight the restlessness long; she has never seen much of a point in lying to herself.

The surprise comes when she finds John sitting in the hallway, to the left of Raven’s door. “What are you doing?” she asks in a whisper, smiling as she shuts the door carefully behind her.

“I knew Raven would be pissed if I knocked and woke her up,” John says, clambering to his feet. In the semi-darkness of the hallway at artificial night, he is pale skin and dark clothes in equal measure. “So I waited.”

“Would you have waited all night, if I hadn’t happened to come out?”

She can barely make out John’s grin, but she almost doesn’t need to. “I had a hunch.”

They don’t do much of anything, but they do go for a walk, a bit of a ramble; fortunately, walking in circles is easily facilitated by the Ring. “It’s after midnight,” John points out. “We’re violating tradition, apparently.”

“They don’t need to know,” Emori says, because that aspect is more about the others than it is them—indeed, most of this is. She doesn’t mind indulging them. It’s not like she has anything better to do.   

They’re long quiet when they pass the observation window for the third time. Emori likes to linger here, and John won’t separate from her yet. He lets go of her hand and instead slides an arm around her waist, holding her close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” John asks, eventually. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

“No,” Emori says, mostly serious, as she leans her head against his bony shoulder. “I’m not thinking much at all, really.”

* * *

Emori _had_ wondered how breakfast was going to work if she and John are supposedly not to see one another, but the following morning, Harper heads John off before he can even get fully into the room. “Sorry,” she says. “You should’ve been earlier than Emori if you wanted to eat in here. Here’s your bowl.”

“What the hell,” John says, as he is shooed out.

It takes a team effort to keep them separated, with Raven sticking close to Emori for the first half of the day and Monty and Harper with John. At what they call midday, however, Raven gives up in favor of her workroom. Emori is not alone in Raven’s room for more than an hour, though, before Harper and Echo come knocking.

“We’re here to help you get ready,” Harper says, her expression bright. She holds a small bundle of clothes and a comb.

“Get ready?” Emori repeats, though she is already stepping aside to let them in. She’s been trying to sleep, a rare midday nap, but has had no luck thus far, and now it’s clear she has missed her chance.

“It’s a special day,” Harper says by way of explanation, placing the clothing on the bed. Emori examines the clothes briefly; it’s just a dark green shirt and gray pants, both in relatively good condition with only a few patches or loose threads. The clothes must have come from storage. On the Ark, as on the ground, articles of clothing are worn until they literally can no longer serve their purpose anymore, at which point they become scrap material to be used in the repair of other clothing. Emori does not complain; the clothes she has on are in need of a wash, anyway, and perhaps they will let her keep these new ones when the day is through.

The clothes fit well enough, once she has put them on; the pants are a little too long, and perhaps would be better suited for someone of Echo’s height, but it’s a simple enough fix to roll them up. “So, what exactly is going on?” Emori asks, once she’s dressed. Harper has the hairbrush, but Echo holds something as well—a little cup of what looks like tar, although that’s impossible here, and a small paintbrush.

Echo, of course, notices where Emori’s attention rests. “It’s not paint, but it’s the closest I could come to here,” she says. “Ground algae and a cream we found in the infirmary.”

“It’s a mild lotion,” Harper says, when Emori furrows her brow. “We found it in the back of a drawer. We didn’t exactly get the okay, but who’s going to notice?”

“You’re going to paint my skin?”

“If you want,” Echo says. “For Ice Nation ceremonies, the face and body are sometimes decorated.”

“I’m not Ice Nation,” Emori says automatically. It’s not as though she has to tell Echo this, of course, but it’s an old defensiveness, one that rises up in unexpected moments.

“Neither am I,” Echo says, holding Emori’s gaze. “I wouldn’t know how to paint anything ceremonial, anyways. Only something that might look pleasing, if you would like.”

Emori nods, and Harper rushes to speak, no doubt relieved that they’ve come to a decision. “Alright. Emori, you should probably sit in a chair.”

Emori is honestly surprised that she has yet to reach a limit on how much she’s willing to indulge them. She takes a seat in a chair at Raven’s table, suppressing a smile. Harper moves to stand behind her, something which Emori finds only slightly less unnerving than when Echo pulls up the one other chair directly in front of her, so that they’re sitting close enough that their knees brush.

“Can I take off your wrap?” Harper asks. “I mean, you can wear it, if you want. But I need to brush your hair.”

Emori reaches up to remove it herself, then puts the fabric on the table. “Go ahead.”

Harper begins pulling the hairbrush through Emori’s hair, carefully tugging out any knots. Echo already has the brush in the makeshift paint, swirling it around to collect the color. “Any requests?” she says. “For either of us?”

“No,” Emori says. “I’m trusting you two on this.”

“I was thinking a bun on top,” Harper says, “and maybe some braids, but mostly loose.”

Echo, for her part, is silent; she reaches out and makes the first mark on Emori’s face in the center of her forehead. The substance is cool, with a sticky texture. Emori doubts it will dry completely, but as long as she doesn’t need to scratch her face for the next few hours, it should be tolerable.

“Are you planning to subject John to this, as well?” Emori asks, after a few moments of quiet. Harper seems to be carefully braiding an uppermost portion of hair, and Echo is so lost in concentration that the noise makes her blink in surprise. “He won’t be as cooperative as I am.”

“Bellamy and Raven are supposed to be dealing with him,” Harper says. “Besides, we figured a shower and a change of clothes were probably the most we could ask of him.”

Emori laughs. Once, it would have rankled her nerves to hear someone else speak of John so knowingly, but she’s used to it now. That’s how things are, in the sky.

Besides, John is difficult sometimes, to the others.

It seems as though it only takes Harper about a half hour to finish what she had planned for Emori’s hair, although she spends a few more minutes fiddling with it until Echo tells her, “It looks fine. Better than fine—good.”

“That’s high praise,” Emori says. Echo scoffs, but Emori can see the amusement in her expression.

“Thank you,” Harper says, sounding pleased. “I’m just being picky. I should probably go check on Monty, anyways, see if he needs help with the decorations.” She leans around to see Emori’s face, smiles, and then bustles from the room.

By this time, Echo has moved on to Emori’s forearms and hands. If she’s moving this quickly, Emori can only hope that the designs on her face are relatively simple; she’s not sure how she would feel about having a face completely covered in algae-paint for the others to see. The design on Emori’s right forearm seems to be a single small pattern, proceeding in a line down her outer forearm from the short hem of her shirtsleeve to the tip of her extended middle finger. The pattern consists of a thick, slightly wavy line followed by a small dot, and then a tiny flower, surprisingly well-crafted given the circumstances, before it repeats.

She hasn’t covered her left hand in a long time, not since sometime in the first weeks after Praimfaiya. When Echo sets to work on her left arm, expression still one of brow-furrowed concentration, Emori speaks despite herself. “This isn’t a ceremonial pattern?”

Echo glances up briefly. One hand delicately holds the paintbrush, while the other just as delicately clasps Emori’s wrist, as though to pin it to the tabletop. “No,” she says. “We don’t care much for flowers, generally. Do you not like it?”

“No, it’s nice,” Emori says, because it is. “You just seem practiced, is all.”

Echo’s mouth twitches slightly. “I am, with warpaint,” she says, her voice placid as she goes back to her task. “But that is simple stuff. This would have been done by the family of the person being honored, usually.”

She has now reached Emori’s wrist, and moves her steadying hand out of the way, letting it rest on the tabletop. “I watched Queen Nia’s servants paint her hands for a feast once, when I was young,” she says, as the paintbrush moves onto the back of Emori’s hand. Emori keeps her body deliberately relaxed, but nothing happens; Echo does not slip, does not flinch in disgust. “Before I was a member of the Guard, when I was kept around for training and to support the _haiplana_. That was the only time I was present for something like this.”     

Emori says nothing, but it doesn’t seem as though she needs to say anything. This is more than Echo has spoken of the ground in years, at least in front of Emori—but then, Echo had a different relationship with their world. Their feelings towards it are necessarily different.

It only takes Echo a moment more to finish, at which point she puts down the paintbrush and gives Emori an appraising look.

“Can I see?” Emori asks as she stands. Echo nods, but Emori is already moving toward a small, cracked mirror, undoubtedly fastened to the wall years ago by someone vainer than Raven.

They’ve done a good job, as far as Emori can tell. Half of her hair is up, in a braid which has been curled into a bun; the rest hangs loose, wavy from a good combing. The design that Echo has given her curls gently down her forehead and across her cheeks. From a distance, it could probably almost pass for more tattoos. Even the new clothes look clean and fresh.

“Good?” Echo says from behind her. She’s collected her things and is standing next to the door.

“Yes,” Emori says, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Good.”

* * *

Emori practically hops off the bed once Raven opens the door; as enjoyable as getting ready was, the hour since that she has spent sitting alone has been dull. She’s already smudged her paint in two places, but thankfully only on her arms, so far. “Is it time yet?” she says. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, relax,” Raven says. “It’s time.”

Raven leads the way down the hallway towards the mess hall, so Emori follows. When they’re about ten feet from the corner which will take them there, Raven stops. “Give me like five seconds to get in place, okay?” she says. “Everybody is taking this way too seriously, in my opinion.”

Emori rolls her eyes in agreement, but they exchange a grin before Raven turns and makes her way into the open space around the bend. Emori pauses, holding her breath for some reason, before she follows.

Monty and Harper have indeed been decorating. There are sheets hanging from the observation port on the far wall, cinched in like curtains. Another sheet serves as a cloth for the table where they all share their meals, and their empty dinner trays and utensils are already out. Raven, Echo, Monty, and Harper are sitting in a row of four mismatched chairs, which they must have pulled from elsewhere on the ship; they all look over their shoulders at her, expectant. Bellamy stands in front of the viewport, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’s trying his best not to take this seriously and, given his posture, failing at it.

John stands in front and to one side of Bellamy, and she meets his eyes last. He’s trying not to smile. It’s easier to weather all the eyes on her if she looks at him.

“I didn’t know I was going to have to make an entrance,” she says.

“Ground custom,” Monty says helpfully.

Emori nods, then crosses the room. Bellamy gestures for her to stand on his right, across from John, then clears his throat. “Now, the vows.”

“Try for some enthusiasm, Bellamy,” John says. “For me.”

Bellamy continues as though John hadn’t spoken, which is probably for the best. “Do you, Jonathan Murphy—”

“Come on, man.”

“—take Emori to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

They must have discussed this beforehand, or perhaps John simply knows what to do, because he looks at her now, holding her gaze evenly. He wears the halfway-amused, halfway-serious look she loves best. “I do.”

“Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect her, as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.”

Now Bellamy looks at her. “Do you, Emori, take John to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She hadn’t expected to be spoken to quite so quickly—then again, she’d had no idea what ‘vows’ entailed. “Yes.”

“Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect him, as long as you both shall live?”

John raises his eyebrows, as though skeptical of her potential response; Emori can no longer withhold her grin. “I do.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Bellamy says. Then, with an air of mild resignation, he adds, “You may kiss.”

She steps forward at the same time John does, although only he seems to have been expecting this. Their kiss feels unpracticed, somehow, new, as though they haven’t been kissing for years now—but she realizes after a beat that it’s because she can’t stop smiling.

When she and John break, Raven says from her seat, “That was less uncomfortable than I thought it would be.”

“Yeah, you didn’t have to stand a foot away,” Bellamy says, but he’s grinning.

“Thank you,” Emori says, looking at him now. “You came up with all that?”

“No,” Bellamy says. “Raven and I found the script on the server yesterday.”

“Standard Ark wedding vows—maximum efficiency,” Raven says, rising from her chair. “Is it rude to ask when’s dinner?”  

Monty rolls his eyes but stands up. “Congratulations, you guys,” he says. “Now, if you’ll all be seated. I got a little crazy with the mix, since it’s a special occasion.”

“By ‘special occasion’ do you mean the day you finally poison us?” John asks. Emori nudges him reproachfully, but her heart’s not in it. She’d never turn down food, could never with the way she grew up, but the sentiment doesn’t feel entirely wrong, sometimes.

“No,” Monty says, as he heads for the kitchens. “But that would be special.”

Monty’s concoction, in all honesty, doesn’t taste much different than what they had for breakfast. The consistency is a little less chunky and therefore less nauseating, though, and for that, Emori can be grateful. “I think it’s because I let it simmer for longer than normal,” Monty explains, when Harper comments on this—a bit more appreciatively than Emori or anyone else would have, of course.

“Which is a smart way of saying you forgot about it,” Harper says affectionately.   

“I have to admit, you guys did a pretty good job with this,” John says, setting aside his bowl, scraped clean. “I almost forgot I was in a tin can orbiting a rock, living off of plant-based goo.”

“It’s the little things,” Raven says dryly. “But it’s not over yet.”

Emori watches as Raven gets up from the table, walks over to the nearby computer consoles at the communications controls, and presses a few keys. The lights dim slightly, and then music begins to play from the speakers above their heads, softly at first, and then louder as Raven adjusts the volume. It’s something sprightly and quick, with a sound that reminds Emori of a stringed instrument Otan had picked up during a con, many years ago, and taken a shine to. A woman’s voice begins to sing, but in a language Emori has never heard before. Words don’t seem to matter as much, though, where dancing is concerned.

“You all wanted a party,” Raven says, when John gives her an unamused look. “Let’s party.”

Harper and Monty are the first to rise, unsurprisingly, and their dancing is energetic and graceless enough to have Emori standing and holding out a hand to John. He makes a show of reluctance, rolling his eyes, but he puts his hand in hers and allows her to tug him to his feet. He slips his arms around her middle, pulling her in close, and she puts her hands on his shoulders, and then they’re dancing.

They assume a simple back-and-forth pattern of steps to the rhythm, although Emori notes, with amusement, Monty and Harper twirling and twisting intermittently nearby. “An Ark dance,” John says. “I thought these days were behind me.”

Emori laughs. “Don’t I deserve to experience it, at least once?”

“Nobody deserves to be subjected to this,” John says, with a grin.

The song fades out, then changes to something faster, this time with a man speaking words in English—it’s even better suited for dancing, and she and John have to make way as Harper whirls by on Monty’s arm, laughing. Out of the corner of her eye, Emori can see Echo and Bellamy clearing the dinner plates from the table, _chores come first_ as usual; when she catches sight of them again, Raven has risen from her seat and caught Bellamy by the arm, dragging him toward the center of the room.

“Raven,” he says, half-laughing. “I don’t dance.”

“Neither do I,” she says, but they fall into it easily enough, hands clasped and faces grinning.

Over the course of several more songs, Emori dances with Raven, who cuts in with a, “You can’t keep her all to yourself, Murphy.” Then John dances with Raven, although they both play as though they’ve been forced to, griping good-naturedly at each other the entire time. Emori dances with Harper, and they watch, whispering to one another, as Bellamy finally asks Echo to dance; she’s all reluctance until he offers her a hand, and suddenly she acquiesces, looking as though she can’t believe it, either. At some point, Monty takes over the music and starts messing with the controls, blending songs together erratically, until Raven returns and a battle for control of the console ensues.  

In all, she dances with everyone at least once, even a slow sway with Echo, who confides quietly that she’s never danced before, as though she could possibly be doing it wrong. John and Bellamy get into one of their many pretend-arguments, broken up only when Raven interrupts to tell them they’re both wrong. At some point, Monty and Harper start kissing by the comms, but nobody minds, much.

Only once they’ve all begun yawning, a desire for bed finally creeping in, quieting the fun without killing it completely, does John pull her gently away. Emori almost hesitates, thinking of the tidying up that remains to be done, but—they can always make up for it tomorrow. She has felt like a child playing pretend all day—with all the friends she never had—and it strikes her that perhaps John has, too.

She expects him to be full of jokes, but instead he just looks back at the others as they leave, half-smiling. They’re still milling about, talking, swaying to the music. The game must end, the day having almost come to a close, but the sweetness lingers as she looks back, too.


End file.
